[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
.They’d been wed two years, and still no bairn had blessed them.“Go now,” she commanded, “before I refuse to let ye.”He scooped up his small pack and slung it over his shoulder, the weight much less than his previous load.With his sword strapped to his side, and his battle axe in hand, he began the long walk, glancing back once at the edge of the forest.He had the sudden feeling he might never see this place—or his beloved wife—again.“Go dté tú slán,” she called.Sorley swallowed over the lump that had formed in his throat as he lifted his axe in farewell.The battle had been raging for nearly half a year.Sorley was cold, wet, hungry, and exhausted beyond what any man should have to withstand.The fact that every man within eyesight shared the same misery stayed his tongue from complaint.At least he wasn’t wounded—much.He dipped the filthy rag into the water that wasn’t much cleaner and retied it around his thigh, not looking too closely at the slash the English scum had put into him three days prior.He downed a mug of brew, cringing at the bitter taste.He hadn’t had anything of substance to fill his belly for too long.Weakness dragged at him.“Deifir! Deifir! Siad ag teacht!”Sorley jumped to his feet at the warning cry and bolted from the thatched hut housing the wounded before the words had really registered.His sword had been lost a fortnight past, so he ran toward the fray, axe raised high as the first Englishman came into view.With a cry upon his lips, he swung his weapon down.Pain, deep within his side, roused Sorley from his sleep.He didn’t remember laying down.He got his fists beneath him and pushed himself slowly away from the icy wet ground.He must’ve been exhausted as he didn’t even have his thin blanket over him.When he gained his knees, he lifted his head and froze at the sight before him.Men lay slaughtered as far as the eye could see, the ground stained red.Not just men—Irishmen.Men he’d been fighting side-by-side with for so long.He glanced to his right to see FitzGerald, his closest mate, lying with his eyes wide, the gash in his neck telling why.Sorley’s stomach heaved at the sight, his empty stomach having nothing to expel, his gut wrenching sobs and loud wailing cries reaching for the heavens.He pushed away from FitzGerald, stumbling over the dead man to his left.He refused to look and see who it was.He stumbled across the massive field, his anguish growing at each man he passed, their numbers seemingly endless.Three days later he crested the hill above his thatched hut.He dropped to his knees at the sight of the thin tendril of smoke rising from the chimney.It felt like lifetimes since he’d last crested this ridge.Overcome with emotion, he couldn’t move, couldn’t stand and make the last three hundred meters it would take to put him back into her arms.The door to the hut pushed open from within and Sorley’s stomach lurched at the sight of her walking out into the yard with a bucket.She walked over to the edge of the river, dumping the contents, then refilling it with clean water.She turned back toward the hut, stopping to stretch her back before picking the bucket up again.The flatness of her belly was obvious even from this distance, and Sorley was suffused with a mixture of both regret and relief.As she walked back to the hut she glanced up to where Sorley knelt.In panic she dropped the bucket and ran inside.He painfully pushed himself to his feet and began the long walk toward his home.Moments later she emerged again, axe raised high.Sorley groaned with a mixture of amusement and exasperation as she came his way.Did she really think her questionable skills with the heavy weapon would protect her?“Who are ye?” she called.“State yer name, now.” Sorley wanted to call to her, take the fear from her face, but words locked within his throat.“Me ‘usband will be right behind me, so I tell ye again: state yer name.”“Grá,” was all he managed.Her face changed at the sound of his voice.“Padraig?” Her voice was hesitant, disbelieving.“Aye.”She stepped cautiously closer.Sorley knew how he looked, six months without a shave or haircut, thin and emaciated from the constant hunger, his clothing hanging like rags, covered with blood.As she reached him, she bent down, axe still raised in preparation, and peered into his face.As she caught sight of his unusual eyes, her own widened.She gasped and flung the axe to the side, launching herself at him.“Padraig!” she screamed, her enthusiasm knocking him back.It was only with great effort that he was able to keep them from falling to the ground.“A chuisle mo chroí.Buíochas le Dia.Fáilte ar ais, céad míle fáilte, mo shíorghrá.”Sorley simply held her, crushing her against his chest as tears of gratitude slid down his face.Chapter 43NiahmI have no words as Sam tells his story.It’s as if he’s telling me a fairy tale, something not real, and yet the emotion on his face as he speaks of the fighting, of leaving his.wife.and then returning to her when he should have been dead, speaks of the truthfulness of his words.His wife.Immortal.I hug my knees to my chest.I feel as if I’ve been lifted out of reality and plopped firmly into an alternate reality full of pain and fantasy.I wonder idly if I can find my way back to my reality, if my parents will be there waiting, and Sam and Jean will be nothing more than my imagination.“For several years we lived hap—” He cuts himself off with a glance my way.“We lived gratefully, without knowing what I was.I stayed away from the fighting.I felt that I had done my duty and that God had spared me for a reason, among all those men who’d died around me.The wars raged on, especially when the Deasmumhain—uh, the Desmond’s, began their rebellions.But I didn’t care about politics anymore, I just wanted to stay home and raise children, and try to erase the horrors of war from my mind.”“Children?” I gasp.His tortured gaze comes to mine.“We didn’t have children [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl centka.pev.pl
.They’d been wed two years, and still no bairn had blessed them.“Go now,” she commanded, “before I refuse to let ye.”He scooped up his small pack and slung it over his shoulder, the weight much less than his previous load.With his sword strapped to his side, and his battle axe in hand, he began the long walk, glancing back once at the edge of the forest.He had the sudden feeling he might never see this place—or his beloved wife—again.“Go dté tú slán,” she called.Sorley swallowed over the lump that had formed in his throat as he lifted his axe in farewell.The battle had been raging for nearly half a year.Sorley was cold, wet, hungry, and exhausted beyond what any man should have to withstand.The fact that every man within eyesight shared the same misery stayed his tongue from complaint.At least he wasn’t wounded—much.He dipped the filthy rag into the water that wasn’t much cleaner and retied it around his thigh, not looking too closely at the slash the English scum had put into him three days prior.He downed a mug of brew, cringing at the bitter taste.He hadn’t had anything of substance to fill his belly for too long.Weakness dragged at him.“Deifir! Deifir! Siad ag teacht!”Sorley jumped to his feet at the warning cry and bolted from the thatched hut housing the wounded before the words had really registered.His sword had been lost a fortnight past, so he ran toward the fray, axe raised high as the first Englishman came into view.With a cry upon his lips, he swung his weapon down.Pain, deep within his side, roused Sorley from his sleep.He didn’t remember laying down.He got his fists beneath him and pushed himself slowly away from the icy wet ground.He must’ve been exhausted as he didn’t even have his thin blanket over him.When he gained his knees, he lifted his head and froze at the sight before him.Men lay slaughtered as far as the eye could see, the ground stained red.Not just men—Irishmen.Men he’d been fighting side-by-side with for so long.He glanced to his right to see FitzGerald, his closest mate, lying with his eyes wide, the gash in his neck telling why.Sorley’s stomach heaved at the sight, his empty stomach having nothing to expel, his gut wrenching sobs and loud wailing cries reaching for the heavens.He pushed away from FitzGerald, stumbling over the dead man to his left.He refused to look and see who it was.He stumbled across the massive field, his anguish growing at each man he passed, their numbers seemingly endless.Three days later he crested the hill above his thatched hut.He dropped to his knees at the sight of the thin tendril of smoke rising from the chimney.It felt like lifetimes since he’d last crested this ridge.Overcome with emotion, he couldn’t move, couldn’t stand and make the last three hundred meters it would take to put him back into her arms.The door to the hut pushed open from within and Sorley’s stomach lurched at the sight of her walking out into the yard with a bucket.She walked over to the edge of the river, dumping the contents, then refilling it with clean water.She turned back toward the hut, stopping to stretch her back before picking the bucket up again.The flatness of her belly was obvious even from this distance, and Sorley was suffused with a mixture of both regret and relief.As she walked back to the hut she glanced up to where Sorley knelt.In panic she dropped the bucket and ran inside.He painfully pushed himself to his feet and began the long walk toward his home.Moments later she emerged again, axe raised high.Sorley groaned with a mixture of amusement and exasperation as she came his way.Did she really think her questionable skills with the heavy weapon would protect her?“Who are ye?” she called.“State yer name, now.” Sorley wanted to call to her, take the fear from her face, but words locked within his throat.“Me ‘usband will be right behind me, so I tell ye again: state yer name.”“Grá,” was all he managed.Her face changed at the sound of his voice.“Padraig?” Her voice was hesitant, disbelieving.“Aye.”She stepped cautiously closer.Sorley knew how he looked, six months without a shave or haircut, thin and emaciated from the constant hunger, his clothing hanging like rags, covered with blood.As she reached him, she bent down, axe still raised in preparation, and peered into his face.As she caught sight of his unusual eyes, her own widened.She gasped and flung the axe to the side, launching herself at him.“Padraig!” she screamed, her enthusiasm knocking him back.It was only with great effort that he was able to keep them from falling to the ground.“A chuisle mo chroí.Buíochas le Dia.Fáilte ar ais, céad míle fáilte, mo shíorghrá.”Sorley simply held her, crushing her against his chest as tears of gratitude slid down his face.Chapter 43NiahmI have no words as Sam tells his story.It’s as if he’s telling me a fairy tale, something not real, and yet the emotion on his face as he speaks of the fighting, of leaving his.wife.and then returning to her when he should have been dead, speaks of the truthfulness of his words.His wife.Immortal.I hug my knees to my chest.I feel as if I’ve been lifted out of reality and plopped firmly into an alternate reality full of pain and fantasy.I wonder idly if I can find my way back to my reality, if my parents will be there waiting, and Sam and Jean will be nothing more than my imagination.“For several years we lived hap—” He cuts himself off with a glance my way.“We lived gratefully, without knowing what I was.I stayed away from the fighting.I felt that I had done my duty and that God had spared me for a reason, among all those men who’d died around me.The wars raged on, especially when the Deasmumhain—uh, the Desmond’s, began their rebellions.But I didn’t care about politics anymore, I just wanted to stay home and raise children, and try to erase the horrors of war from my mind.”“Children?” I gasp.His tortured gaze comes to mine.“We didn’t have children [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]